


At the end of the tunnel (Light)

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Eating Disorder, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: When Brad returns from hospital, Chester soon realises it’s going to take a lot of twists and turns before things are okay again. But they can do it, right?





	At the end of the tunnel (Light)

The sun shines in through a crack in my curtains when I wake up and I think to myself that this has to be an omen; a good one at that. I rub my eyes, stretch my arms above my head and count to ten before launching myself upwards. My feet hit the soft carpeted floor and I stand up, shaking the embers of sleep from my body as I head downstairs, jumping off the bottom step.

  
  


Mike’s in my kitchen picking the blueberries out of his muffin. I refrain from telling him there are some chocolate chip ones in the cupboard as I walk in and plonk myself down at the table opposite him.

  
  


“Morning,” He smiles, “I let myself in because you were dead to the world or ignoring me,” He narrows his eyes playfully, “Coffee?”

  
  


“Please, a strong one,” I add, “What time is it?”

  
  


“Ten.”

  
  


Two hours to go. I begin to fiddle with the knife Mike was using to gouge out the offending berries. Two hours and I can hold him in my arms. All of a sudden I feel nervous. Two hours and he’ll be safe and home. I swear the sun has suddenly dipped behind black clouds. Two hours and…

  
  


“Chester?!”

  
  


I jump. The knife clatters to the floor and for a moment Mike stands stiffly with my coffee mug in his hands, eyes slightly wide as time seems to pause around us.

  
  


“You okay?” He asks, softly, time catching us up when he places the coffee down in front of me, “Careful, it’s hot,” He warns me, bending down to pick up the knife.

  
  


“Yeah,” I nod, “Thanks… I’m just nervous.”

  
  


Mike sits down beside me, hand brushing against my arm. I take a sip of my coffee and stare out of the kitchen window. I can feel my stomach churning and I’m trying to be positive but I am so damn scared.

  
  


“Things will be okay Chester.”

  
  


“I hope so,” I breathe out, “Mike, what if he’s not recovered?”

  
  


“We talked about this last night,” He smiles softly, “He probably isn’t fully recovered but you’ll help him get there - just be yourself Chester and love him like you always have done.”

  
  


“But what if I’m not good enough? I mean he got ill and I didn’t even fucking notice - what if he goes back? What if I don’t catch the signs and…”

  
  


“Chester! Calm down,” Mike soothes, “You can’t blame yourself because it  _wasn’t_  your fault. No one noticed Chester, not the real problems anyway. He was good at hiding things but I think he’s changed?”

  
  


I nod my head and finish my coffee and Mike goes back to his muffin. I make a mental note to remember this conversation and hope that when times get tough again I think back to it. Mike cocks his head and looks at me, crumbs around his mouth.

  
  


“What?” He asks, mouth full of muffin.

  
  


+

  
  
  


My hands are clammy, throat dry and heart pounding like a drum. I feel like I’m caught in the calm before a storm. I can feel it brewing up; a mixture of excitement and utter fear. I can’t wait to see him, to know that he’s coming home with me yet I can’t shake the apprehension that rides high in my throat, begging to be released in the form of a strangled sob.

  
  


“Smile?”

  
  


I turn to Mike who’s standing next to me in the reception area and take my hands out of my pockets, trying not to wring them around one another. I take a deep breath and try my hardest to smile.

  
  


“Jesus,” Mike’s eyes widen in mock horror, “Don’t let the Doctors see you smile like that! They’ll get the straight jackets out!”

  
  


I punch him in the side and he’s about to shove me into a stand of self-help leaflets when I see  _him_  coming down the corridor and suddenly I feel so faint like I could just fold to the floor in a matter of seconds. Somehow though, my feet begin to move and before I realise it I’m running down the corridor like a fucking maniac.

  
  


“Brad,” I breathe out, my arms wrapping around my lover’s slight frame the moment I’ve reached him.

  
  


The way his arms tighten around me, the way his breath tickles my ear; it means the world to me because four months ago he was barely breathing at all. I let him go and stand back, my hands resting on his shoulders.

  
  


“You look well,” I manage to whisper, eyes scanning up and down his slender body, finally settling on his brown eyes, “I’ve missed you so much.”

  
  


Brad smiles, albeit sadly but I push it to the back of my mind and wrap my hand around his.

  
  


“You ready?” I ask.

  
  


He nods and I take his holdall from his hand, noting how his fingers aren’t as bony as they once were. And as we walk back toward Mike I notice a lot of other things like how his hair’s grown thicker and his skin isn’t so pale and how that shimmer in his eyes has finally returned. I guess that four months treatment for anorexia does that for you.

  
  


+

  
  


I watch Mike leave from my lounge window, wincing when he almost knocks an old lady flying as he reverses out of the driveway. The look on his face is priceless as he slams on the breaks, flings the door open and races over to her to apologise. I can’t hear her response but the fact that she starts to assault him with her umbrella says it all really. I can’t suppress my laughter as he hastily gets back into his car, slams the door and speeds off down the road. The fact that Mike still has his licence never ceases to amaze me.

  
  


“Hi.”

  
  


I turn away from the window to see Brad standing hesitantly in the doorway. He’s freshly showered and dressed in tight black jeans and a button down shirt. It takes everything in me not to walk over to him, slam his body against the floor and fuck the hell out of him.

  
  


Instead I croak out, “You look nice.”

  
  


Brad blushes, bites his lip and glances at the floor.

  
  


“You  _can_  come in you know,” I smile softly, walking over to him.

  
  


“I know,” He shifts from one foot to the other, “It’s just that this is the first time I’ve been in here since you, y’know, since you found me.”

  
  


The flashback hits me square between the eyes. I’m coming home from the studio, slamming the door shut and calling out to Brad. There’s no answer so I think he’s probably in bed because he looked awful that morning and hadn’t recovered from the bout of flu he had the month before. So I’m walking down the hallway when something catches the corner of my eye and when I turn, I’m standing in the doorway to the lounge and the first thing I see is the upturned piano stool. The second thing I see is a hand. The third thing I see, when my shaking legs carry me into the room, is Brad lying unconscious on the floor.

  
  


“Chester?”

  
  


I jump. Flashback over. I gulp and tell myself to be brave.

  
  


“It’s okay,” I smile gently, “I cleaned away the blood.”

  
  


Brad looks at me, he looks shocked, “I didn’t mean that…”

  
  


“I know,” I bite my lip, “Shit. It was a joke - a  _bad_  joke - I was just trying to lighten the…”

  
  


Brad leans forward and kisses me. I’m surprised at first but when his hands slide around my waist I kiss him back, tasting candy and mint and that indescribable essence that is Brad. I don’t want to stop but there’s the small matter of needing air and such so I reluctantly pull away, my hands sliding around Brad’s back.

  
  


“It was a while before I could come in here too,” I admit, “I thought about decorating the room then I thought that would be, I don’t know,” I shrug, “Like trying to cover up the cracks?”

  
  


Brad nods, “I missed you,” He whispers, the words tumbling from his lips.

  
  


I pull him against me then, hold him and realise he’s still so tiny and he’s also shaking quite badly. I run my hands up and down his spine, hesitantly at first, scared his bones may crack under my touch but he leans into me, almost like he’s clinging on for dear life and I think of the struggle it was for so many weeks when he lay in hospital not talking, not eating; just staring up at the ceiling. I shiver and hold him tighter, remembering the day he finally confessed he’d been starving himself because he’d become so repulsed by his appearance; so obsessed that he was fat and ugly and no words from my mouth could stop those thoughts from spinning and spiralling out of control. I felt helpless when he told me how it had been going on for almost a year. I felt like a failure for not noticing, for letting him almost die and worst of all I felt like he wasn’t ever going to come back from that point. It was like he was out on a ship; caught in a storm, too far gone to return.

  
  


So that’s why I can’t help but not want to let go, but I do so, slowly but surely staring into Brad’s eyes.

  
  


“We’re going to get through this,” I tell him, “We’ll get through things together from now on and if ever you need to tell me anything…”

  
  


“I will,” Brad whispers, his words soft yet reassuring and somehow it’s more than enough for me.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


Of course it’s hard at first. Like the first meal and I’m wondering what the hell do I cook? What do I suggest? How do I even bring the subject up? I visited Brad at the clinic every week, I watched him go from being fed by a drip to slowly accepting tiny portions of food to finally joining the other residents in the canteen and taking maybe an hour to eat a sandwich. So I stand in the kitchen, staring into the fridge when I hear him walking up behind me.

  
  


“If you’re.. If you’re scared to ask,” Brad clears his throat so I turn around, “If you’re scared to ask if I’m hungry,” He shrugs, “Don’t be.”

  
  


“I’m not scared as such,” I close the fridge door, “I just…  _Are_  you hungry?” I frown.

  
  


Brad nods, “A little.”

  
  


“Want to help me make some dinner then?” I ask.

  
  


I remember how one of the nurses took me to one side last week to give me some advice. She told me that Brad needs to feel in control of what he’s eating, told me that it might be an idea for me to cook but to let him help.

  
  


I take a deep breath. It all sounds so bizarre but seeing Brad, seeing him all skin and bones, all despondent and weak; it makes this seem like a significant step into getting him back on track.

  
  


So we make pasta and Brad laughs at me for spilling the sauce and I wipe my dirty fingers down his cheeks and he hits me with the oven glove and I slam him against the fridge door and start kissing him again.

  
  


“Okay, you have to stop,” Brad pants out and I back away, afraid I’ve done something wrong.

  
  


“Sorry,” I blush.

  
  


“The pasta’s boiling over, that’s all,” Brad shrugs and my stupid fear is washed away in an instant.

  
  


It takes Brad about ninety minutes to eat his plate of food. I try not to stare but it’s hard. He cuts everything up into tiny pieces and each mouthful has to be chewed and chewed and chewed then it gets swallowed by sip of water. I push my plate away and rest my elbows on the table. I suddenly want to cry, want to ask what happened to  _my_  Brad but then I remind myself that this  _is_  my Brad; this is just something that needs working on.

  
  


Doesn’t stop me panicking when he finishes and excuses himself to the bathroom. I rinse the dishes, dazedly place them into the dishwasher then start pacing the kitchen. Ten minutes pass and I  _have_  to go see if he’s okay.

  
  


Walking down the hallway feels so eerie. A few hours ago when Mike and I collected Brad I felt as though he’d come so far. And he has, yet when I realise I can’t help but panic over every little thing he says or does and I can’t help but follow him into the bathroom after he’s eaten, it makes me feel sick. It’s only been an afternoon. What’s it going to be like for the next few weeks; months, even?

  
  


I pause outside the bathroom door, press my ear against the wooden surface. I can’t hear anything so I gently knock, hope he doesn’t get angry at me for prying. There’s no answer.

  
  


“Brad?” I croak, “You okay?”

  
  


Taking a deep breath, I push open the door, feet suddenly feeling cold when they hit the tiled floor. Brad sits on the edge of the bathtub. Tears are streaming down his face.

  
  


“Brad?” I whisper, kneeling down in front of him, “What’s wrong?”

  
  


“I… I didn’t do it,” He sniffs, “I just,” He stops and looks at me, “It’s still in here,” He whispers, hand shakily pointing to his stomach.

  
  


I get up and sit down beside him, my arm slipping around his waist. I don’t know what to say at first. So I just sit and hold him, rub his shoulder until his cries die down.

  
  


“I’m sorry,” Brad starts, “I’m sorry that this is how messed up things have become. If you want me to go somewhere else, or go back to the clinic then I’ll understand…”

  
  


“Don’t say that,” I frown, “Brad I don’t want you anywhere  _but_  here.”

  
  


“But I can’t help but feel I’ve fucked everyone’s lives up. Yours; the bands? I feel so fucking inconvenient.”

  
  


“Don’t be such a fucking idiot,” I feel my voice rising, not out of malice or anger, just out of frustration, “Brad no one thinks that at all. We’re all here for you, wanting to help you get better.”

  
  


“But what if I can’t Chaz?” He murmurs, burying his head against my chest, “What if I can’t do it? I feel so trapped, I feel like I can’t move on until I’m better - but I don’t know if I  _can_  get better.”

  
  


“You can get better,” I tell him, “Look, this is a start - you didn’t make yourself throw up?”

  
  


Brad shakes his head ‘no’.

  
  


“Do you want to?”

  
  


He shrugs.

  
  


“Talk to me,” I nudge him.

  
  


“Part of me wants to,” Brad looks up at me, “But I know that I don’t need to,” He smiles, “There’s this stupid battle going on inside my head at the moment,” He chuckles.

  
  


“And which side is winning?”

  
  


“The side that knows this is wrong,” He breathes out.

  
  


“Let’s go for a walk,” I suddenly hear myself saying, feeling like this might take his mind off of things, stop him from worrying or listening to the less rational part of his brain.

  
  
  


At least, I hope so.

  
  
  
  


+

  
  
  
  


We end up at the park a couple of blocks away. It’s still light and feels pretty humid as we stroll around the rose gardens away from the masses of children assaulting the adventure playground and the teenagers that hang around the band stand with bottles of cider. Brad’s hand is clasped around mine and I can’t help but feel like I really do not want to let it go. I can’t seem to suppress that feeling at all.

  
  


“I never thanked you,” Brad’s voice suddenly sounds in my ear.

  
  


“For what?”

  
  


“For sticking by me,” He shrugs, “For coming to see me every week,” He pauses as we reach a bench and we both sit down.

  
  


“I,” I stammer, “You don’t need to thank me,” I tell him.

  
  


“I wanted to,” Brad smiles, “You kept me going Chester. When I finally got my head around things, when I’d started to listen to the Doctors and Therapists and  _you_ , it’s like a penny dropped - well, it’s still dropping,” He laughs, “But knowing you were there, knowing I could come home to you and,” He pauses, “I guess I’m trying to say you helped so much. When I started to realise I needed to get better, it was you that kept me pushing.”

  
  


“…”

  
  


“God, I’m sorry if that sounds like I’m putting a load of weight on your shoulders or…”

  
  


I kiss him. I don’t care that we’re in the middle of the park and there’s a gardener walking towards us. I press my lips against his, slide my hands down his back and pull him on top of me. He kisses me back, tongue flicking out against mine and I mentally tell the world to go fuck itself as I slide my down the back of his jeans.

  
  


We stay like that for a while; eyes shutting out everyone else. My hands slide to the front of Brad’s jeans and my fingers are just wrapping around the tiny, metallic zipper when something starts to buzz in my pocket.

  
  


“Ugh,” I groan, breaking away from Brad, “My phone…”

  
  


Brad smiles, kisses me on the cheek then sits back down beside me as I pull out the small silver device and see Mike’s name flashing on the tiny screen.

  
  


“Hey,” I greet him, pressing my cell phone to my ear.

  
  


“Hope I’m not disturbing…”

  
  


“You are actually Mike,” I glance at Brad with a smile, “I was just about to put my hands down…”

  
  


“Okay STOP,” Mike yells with a laugh, “Where are you?”

  
  


“In the park.”

  
  


“Please tell me you weren’t fondling one another…”

  
  


“Might have been.”

  
  


“Oh God.”

  
  


“We’ve got a lot of sex to make up for Michael,” Brad calls out.

  
  


“Well do you think you could put that to the backs of your minds for now? The rest of the band have just crashed my house, you two want to join us?”

  
  


I glance at Brad, “Mike’s begging us to go to his place. Apparently he’s missed you.”

  
  


“Aww,” Brad grins, “Sure. We can use his guest bedroom.”

  
  


“Assholes,” Mike’s voice echoes down the phone line.

  
  


“We’ll be over in a bit.”

  
  


“Later.”

  
  


“Love you Mike,” Brad shouts.

  
  


As I pocket my phone and we walk out of the park, feet padding over the gravel lined paths that meander around the playground I can’t help but smile because that was the first time in a long, long time that Brad was back to his old, quirky self.

  
  


I honestly never thought we’d reach this point.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


“Well, here’s to Brad!” Phoenix grins, raising his glass of coke to the air.

  
  


“Jesus,” Brad laughs, “Where’s the fucking champagne Mike? The canapés? The banners and your declaration of love for me?”

  
  


“I think you’re drunk,” I giggle at Brad as he flops down next to me.

  
  


“I’ve only had one beer,” He looks at me, “And you’re right. Maybe this is what being sober for four months does to you,” He muses out loud, placing his empty beer bottle down on the floor, “I’ve even forgotten how many calories are in a bottle of beer,” He grins proudly and I kiss him on the cheek.

  
  


I glance around at my band mates, thinking how this is the first time in ages since we’ve all been together in one room. We all decided to put things on hiatus until Brad got himself better, something which was hard but something which we definitely needed to do and as Mike jumps down in between Brad and I on the couch I can’t help but feel how it’s done us the world of good.

  
  


Before Brad was sectioned, Mike and Phoenix were barely talking to one another; Rob was off in another world with his other band; Joe was going through his second divorce and I, personally, couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. Funny how time apart can change you. And as I glance around again, I realise Mike has passed out beside me and Brad has disappeared.

  
  


I get to my feet, climbing over Joe and Phoenix who are sprawled out on Mike’s lounge floor battling on the one another on Mike’s games console. My feet carry me into the kitchen where I find Brad sitting at the table, eyes staring at the fruit bowl in the centre of it.

  
  


“Hey,” I smile, sliding into the seat beside him.

  
  


“Hey,” He returns my smile.

  
  


“You okay?” I ask.

  
  


He shrugs, “Just feeling a bit…”

  
  


“Drunk?”

  
  


“No,” He shakes his head, “Up and down? One minute I’m happy as hell, the next minute I…”

  
  


“Look like Mike when he’s playing breaking the habit on piano?”

  
  


“Thanks Chaz,” Brad glares at me.

  
  


“Seriously though, it’s okay to feel like that.”

  
  


“Really?”

  
  


“Yes! It’s understandable. When you want to laugh, laugh and when you want to cry,” I pause, “Come to me and I’ll let you use my shoulder.”

  
  


Brad suddenly bursts into tears.

  
  


“Shit! I’m sorry, what did I say?”

  
  


“No,” Brad sniffs, wiping away the wet marks that are meandering down his cheeks, “I just.. I’m so grateful. You’ve made me feel so much better about things today and this,” He motions to Mike’s lounge, “Knowing my friends still want me around, still care for me despite all the shit and worry I’ve put them through? It means the world.”

  
  


I want to tell him how he means the world to me but the words lodge in my throat. Probably for the best though, I’m trying to help him stop throwing up.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  
  


I know I’m dreaming. That’s probably what makes it harder; knowing if I just get out of here and wake up then I’ll be okay. Only I can’t. I’m trapped under a blanket of thick sleep, tossing and turning, trying to struggle free from the images that are torturing my mind, constricting my throat as they wrap themselves around every inch of my body.

  
  


Brad cold and lifeless; Brad shaking and crying; Brad all skin and bones; Brad yelling at me, screaming and lashing out.

  
  


_“You can’t save me. I don’t want you to even try.”_

  
  


The words spin around my mind, crashing against the images of him in that dank hospital ward, skin pulled tight over bones; hands shaking as they try to grip onto a plastic cup of water.

  
  


_“I couldn’t talk to you. You wouldn’t understand. You’d just make me eat. You’d make me worse!”_

  
  


The shouts get louder to the point where I cannot block them out. I push through the hazy scenes of Brad shouting at me, hissing words of hate, begging me to let him out of his prison.

  
  


_“Go. Leave me to rot in hell.”_

  
  


The words still hurt, even in their faded memory-like form, they’re still so raw and sharp, piercing my ears; my heart. Then I’m there; walking home the day he told me to leave him, tears running down my cheeks, mixing with the rain until I can’t see where I’m going and suddenly…

  
  
  


“Chester?”

  
  


My eyes snap open and I sit up at once. Sweat’s pouring down my back and I’m staring right into Brad’s wide eyes. It’s okay. I’m awake.

  
  


“It was just a nightmare,” He tells me, “Chester?”

  
  


I take deep breaths. My hands are shaking. Brad wraps an arm around me. Why can’t I stop shaking?

  
  


“Are you okay?”

  
  


“I… I think so,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

  
  


“You were calling my name,” Brad pauses, “What happened?”

  
  


“I… Flashbacks,” I tell him, trying not to stutter.

  
  


Brad frowns, “Do you get them a lot?”

  
  


I don’t want to tell him the truth, don’t want him to start blaming himself but I can’t lie to Brad, not if I want him to start telling  _me_  the truth, can I?

  
  


“Yes,” I whisper.

  
  


Brad squeezes me, “I’m sorry.”

  
  


“It’s not… it’s not your fault. It’s just, just the bad things. Like when I found you, or when we argued and sometimes they’re not even things that have happened,” I tell him, the words rushing out of my mouth.

  
  


“I’m still sorry though. For those times when I was being really difficult, for the times I swore at you and said some pretty nasty things. I was just so screwed up,” Brad whispers.

  
  


I lean over to the nightstand, switch on one of the lamps. It’s softness illuminates the room; Brad’s tired eyes and pale skin. I lean into him and slide in between his legs.

  
  


“I understand,” I tell him, “It hurt at first but then I realised you didn’t mean those things.”

  
  


“You did, right?” Brad asks hurriedly, “Because I never meant those words at all. I was just so angry at my family for, for putting me in that place and leaving me there. I thought you were all against me. I thought you were going to turn your back on me like they did. They still haven’t been in contact.”

  
  


“They’re not worth you worrying,” I sigh, “I hate to be so harsh Brad. They did something good, something that needed doing when they signed those forms for you to be admitted into that clinic yet they turned their backs on you.”

  
  


Brad looks at me, sadness evident in his eyes, “Do you think we can get through this Chester?”

  
  


“Without a doubt,” I tell him.

  
  


“Even with the nightmares? The fact I’m so up and down? The prospect of me crying and laughing at the same time?”

  
  


“Even with the fact it takes you ninety minutes to eat a plate of pasta,” I grin.

  
  


“Hey,” Brad feigns hurt, “That’s a record I’ll have you know! I’m down from two hours!”

  
  


“It  _was_  a bit leathery though.”

  
  


“Yeah, because you let it overcook!”

  
  


“I had other things distracting me!”

  
  


“You were pinning me to the fridge door and  _okay_ …”

  
  


Brad’s inability to finish his sentence is due to the fact I cover his mouth with my lips and push him down against the bed until we’re both lying side by side, hands clawing over one another’s bodies. I close my eyes as Brad rolls me onto my back and clambers on top of me, his legs resting either side of my thighs. A burst of cool air hits my warm skin when he slides off my T-shirt and a rush of blood bursts downward as he slides his clammy fingertips into the waistband of my boxer shorts.

  
  


I think about a lot when Brad’s undressing me; a sudden rush of thoughts come colliding through my mind all at once and I realise that it’s things like this that either break you or make you stronger.

  
  


I’m starting to feel stronger already.

  
  


And nothing,  _nothing_  is going to break Brad and I.

  
  


“Fuck,” I utter as his hand slides between my thighs, “That feels so fucking hot.”

  
  
  


**END.**


End file.
